RICKMAS 2024

Lionel Shabandar sat in his office, staring out at the snow-draped London skyline. The muffled stillness of the city seemed to mock the storm of thoughts churning inside him. A glass of water sat untouched on his desk, condensation dripping down its surface. Lionel adjusted his cuffs for the fourth time, a restless energy coursing through him.

The Americans would arrive soon. Their cars were already idling outside, sleek and black, as though heralding the gravity of the final signing. This was supposed to be the triumphant conclusion to months of negotiations. Yet Lionel felt none of the satisfaction he usually savored at moments like these.

Instead, his thoughts strayed.

Rachel Collins.

It had been a week—only seven days—since she walked into his life with her sharp intellect, effortless confidence, and a wry sense of humor that had affected him more than he cared to admit. Lionel wasn’t a man prone to sentimentality, especially over people he barely knew, yet here he was, unsettled by the idea of her leaving.

Rachel didn’t flatter him, didn’t tiptoe around his authority. She’d called him out more than once, much to his amusement. But it wasn’t just her defiance that had stayed with him. It was the moments in between—the rare glimpses of vulnerability she tried so hard to hide.

It made her unforgettable.

The knock at the door signaled the Americans’ arrival, pulling Lionel from his thoughts. He straightened, his expression falling back into its usual mask of calm authority as he made his way to the boardroom.

The room quickly filled with lawyers, advisors, and the steady hum of corporate efficiency. Rachel arrived last, her stride purposeful, her gaze fixed ahead. She didn’t acknowledge him, not even a passing glance, and Lionel felt a strange unsettling in his chest.

He’d expected her distance. It made sense. Her newfound fame required she tread carefully. Their kiss had ignited more than just the tabloids’ imagination, and while Lionel had navigated the media frenzy with ease, he couldn’t stop replaying that moment in his mind.

The signing proceeded without incident. Contracts exchanged hands, signatures scrawled in ink, and polite applause filled the room. The Americans were satisfied, shaking hands and making their exit. Rachel followed, her steps brisk, her focus unyielding.

Lionel remained seated, watching the door swing shut behind her. The finality of it left him with a hollowness he couldn’t explain. He stood, unable to shake the gnawing unease as he wandered down the hall.

Voices caught his attention, sharp and cutting. He stopped just short of the adjacent conference room, where Judith’s tone carried above the general murmur of the building.

“You’ll be needed again soon,” Judith was saying, her words clipped. “There’s another prospect in Paris—Bourdeaux. You’ve proven quite effective, Rachel. We’ll need you to… cultivate the same rapport you had with Shabandar.”

“‘Cultivate rapport?’” Rachel’s voice was low and biting. “What am I, some kind of corporate honey trap?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Judith replied, her dismissive tone like a slap. “You’re an asset, Rachel. It’s your charm that closes deals like these.”

Lionel’s jaw tightened. He stood frozen, fury mounting as the conversation continued.

“I’ve given everything to this firm,” Rachel said, her voice shaking with barely suppressed anger. “Late nights, weekends, flying halfway across the world on a moment’s notice. And for what? A photo op? Do you think I actually slept with Lionel?”

“Did you?” Judith pointedly asked. 

“Rachel,” Philip interjected, his tone condescending. “Let’s not make this personal. It’s business—”

“No,” Rachel snapped, her voice rising. “Not anymore. I’m fucking done. You can find someone else to ‘cultivate rapport.’ I quit.”

Before Lionel could think, he pushed the door open. His presence filled the room, his expression a calm mask over the storm brewing inside.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Lionel said, his voice sharp and deliberate. “Because the deal is off.”

Judith and Philip turned, their faces draining of color.

“Mr. Shabandar, let’s be reasonable,” Judith began, her tone honeyed, but Lionel raised a hand, silencing her.

“Leave,” he growled coldly. “Now.”

They scrambled to collect their belongings, leaving Rachel standing alone, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Lionel’s gaze softened as he stepped closer. “Come,” he said gently, offering an arm. “We’re taking a walk.”

The snow fell heavier now, swirling in the lamplight as Lionel and Rachel walked in silence. The streets were quiet, the muffled crunch of snow beneath their feet the only sound. Rachel’s despair simmered just beneath the surface.

“I’m so screwed,” she muttered, breaking the silence.

“Nonsense,” Lionel replied, his tone firm. “They didn’t deserve you.”

Rachel stopped, turning to face him. “What am I supposed to do now?” she asked, her voice trembling. “They’ll blacklist me everywhere. No one will touch me after this.”

Lionel met her gaze, his own steady and unwavering. “You’ll figure it out,” he said simply. “And you’ll be staying with me tonight. No arguments.”

Rachel blinked, surprised by the offer. “Lionel, I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted. “And you will.”

Her lips parted as if to protest, but something in his expression stopped her. She nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

They continued walking, the quiet stretching between them. Finally, Lionel spoke, his voice softer now.

“You’re not just a photo op, Rachel. Not to me.”

Rachel slowed, her steps faltering. “Then what am I?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lionel turned to her, his gaze searching. He wanted to tell her she was wonderful, sweep her off her feet, protect her from all the bad in the world. but Lionel held his tongue. His patience hadn’t steered him wrong yet.

“You’re the first person who’s ordered me to dress as Santa Claus,” he chuckled richly, opting for her safer attributes. “But I also know you’re intelligent, wry, and think quick on your feet. You also won’t take anybody’s shit. Your outburst did more good than harm, I promise.”

Rachel stepped out of Lionel’s car, clutching her backpack as she looked up at the sleek glass tower. Snow swirled around her, catching in her hair and clinging to the wool scarf draped over her shoulders. The driver had already disappeared into the building with her bag, leaving her to stand there for a moment, feeling equal parts exhausted and apprehensive.

Lionel’s penthouse.

It felt ridiculous—like a fever dream. She wasn’t even supposed to be here, in this world of impossible wealth and power. She was a Kansas girl cosplaying as a badass corporate lawyer in NYC, and she couldn’t even do that right. And now here she was, stepping into a realm where the doorman’s uniform probably cost more than the contents of her suitcase.

When she entered the penthouse, his home, it was almost too much. Her breath caught as the elevator doors slid open, revealing a sprawling space of glass and steel. The walls seemed to disappear, offering uninterrupted views of the city blanketed in snow. Warm, golden light spilled from artfully placed fixtures, reflecting off marble floors and sleek, modern furniture.

Rachel’s boots echoed softly as she stepped inside. She felt like a field mouse wandering into a lion’s den—small, insignificant, and very out of place.

The driver placed her suitcase near the entryway and left with a polite nod, leaving Rachel alone to take it all in. Slowly, she walked toward the living room, her fingertips brushing over the buttery leather of the couch. A fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace, its warmth inviting but somehow foreign.

Her stomach twisted with unease.

Was she really supposed to just… stay here? What was she even supposed to do with herself?

Lionel had insisted. After she’d quit, her former colleagues would no doubt be lingering at the hotel, stewing and waiting for a chance to corner her again. Lionel hadn’t given her a choice, dispatching his driver with instructions to collect her belongings from the hotel then escort her from his office straight to his home for the night.

Rachel sighed, shaking her head. She slipped off her boots, shrugging out of her coat and scarf before padding toward the kitchen.

It was massive, of course. Gleaming appliances, marble countertops, and cabinets that probably hid more gadgets than she could name. Her own reflection stared back at her from the polished steel of the fridge. She looked absurdly out of place in her worn K-State hoodie and black leggings, her hair pulled into a messy bun.

But despite the grandeur, there was something about the space that begged to be used, and her restless energy itched for an outlet.

Rachel found herself rummaging through the cabinets, relieved to find basics like flour, sugar, and eggs. Lionel’s cupboards weren’t as bare as she’d expected. She rolled up her sleeves and got to work, measuring and mixing, the familiar routine grounding her.

Soon, the scent of chocolate chip cookies filled the air. She slid a tray into the oven, leaning against the counter as she waited. The act of baking eased the tension in her chest, but it couldn’t chase away the whirlwind of thoughts racing through her mind.

She had torpedoed her career in spectacular fashion today. Her years of hard work, her carefully crafted reputation, gone in the span of a single outburst. She felt liberated and terrified all at once.

And Lionel…

Rachel closed her eyes, the memory of his steady presence lingering in her mind. He’d defended her without hesitation, shutting down Judith and Philip as though they weren’t worth more than a second of his time. His anger had been palpable, yet his concern for her had shone through. It was…strange.

The ding of the oven broke her reverie. She pulled the tray out, the golden cookies glistening slightly from the melted chocolate. Grabbing a spatula, she transferred them onto a cooling rack, the warm scent enveloping her like a hug.

That’s when she heard the front door open.

Lionel stepped inside, loosening his tie and shrugging out of his coat. The scent of something sweet hit him immediately, a sharp contrast to the sterile, perfumed air of his usual life. His brows furrowed as he followed the smell to the kitchen, where he found Rachel standing over a tray of cookies, her hoodie dusted with flour.

“You’ve been busy,” he remarked, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

Rachel turned, a little startled but quickly recovering. “I couldn’t sit still,” she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Lionel leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he surveyed the scene. That odd warmth flickered in his chest again. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone bake in this kitchen before.”

Rachel smirked, offering a fresh baked cookie to him. “First time for everything.”

He took it, their fingers brushing briefly. Lionel bit into the cookie, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. “You’re full of hidden talents,” he said, a hint of warmth in his tone.

Rachel laughed softly, resting her elbows on the counter. “It’s just cookies. Don’t give me too much credit.”

All Lionel could do was smile. Yes, this was a sight he could get used to.

“How about dinner?”

Rachel stood at the kitchen counter, tugging off her hoodie as she surveyed the ingredients Lionel had pulled from his fridge. “You’re telling me this is all you have?” she teased, holding up a bundle of fresh herbs and a suspiciously pristine package of pasta. “Are these for cooking or decoration?”

Lionel smirked, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “My housekeeper does the shopping. I wouldn’t know.”

“Of course not,” Rachel muttered, shaking her head. She grabbed an onion and a knife, setting to work. “Fine. We’ll make this work. But you’re helping.”

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “You are capable of holding a spoon, right? Or do billionaires outsource that too?”

Lionel’s brows arched in challenge. “I can hold a spoon.”

“Great,” she said brightly. “A knife ain’t much different. Start chopping those tomatoes.”

Lionel pushed off the counter, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling them up as he made his way to the cutting board. Rachel watched him out of the corner of her eye, surprised at how natural he looked standing beside her—almost domestic. It felt surreal.

She hid a smile as Lionel picked up a tomato and the knife, inspecting both like they were foreign objects.

“Careful,” she warned lightly. “The goal is to chop, not amputate.”

“I’ll have you know,” Lionel replied, carefully slicing into the tomato with far more focus than necessary, “I am excellent with my hands.”

Rachel snorted, ducking her head to hide her grin and lewd thoughts of what exactly he could do with those hands. “Chopping vegetables doesn’t count as fine craftsmanship, Lionel.”

“You’re very critical,” he teased, sneaking a glance at her.

“Someone has to keep you humble.”

They worked side by side, their movements falling into a surprisingly easy rhythm. Rachel sautéed onions and garlic while Lionel—slowly, meticulously—continued slicing tomatoes. Every so often, she’d glance over and find him watching her, the barest hint of a smile curving his lips.

He looked… at ease. Achingly human. Relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen before.

“Done yet?” she asked after a moment, turning toward him.

Lionel held up the cutting board, his chopped tomatoes… passable. “A masterpiece,” he declared dryly.

“Debatable.” Rachel grabbed a dishtowel and swatted his arm with it, earning a startled laugh.

“Is this how you reward me for my hard work in my own home?” he asked, feigning offense as he stepped back, hands raised.

“Hard work? Please.” She grinned, snapping the towel again as he sidestepped. “If I wanted someone to move that slowly, I’d hire my grandpa.”

Lionel’s lips twitched, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Careful, Rachel, or the lion might strike back.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try.”

There was something about the lightness of their banter, the way laughter filled the kitchen, that made Rachel’s heart ache a little. It felt natural and unforced, the kind of fun she hadn’t had in ages. Lionel, for all his power and sharp wit, was… fun. He moved around her now, stealing ingredients off the counter—just to provoke her—and Rachel found herself swatting at him more than once, her cheeks hurting from smiling so much.

“Out of the way,” she said, nudging him with her hip as she reached for the pan.

“Bossy,” Lionel murmured, his voice low enough to send a ripple of heat through her.

Rachel glanced up sharply, finding him standing closer than she’d realized. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, the teasing stopped. The tension—so easily ignored just minutes ago—crackled back to life, humming in the space between them.

Lionel didn’t look away, his gaze steady, searching. Rachel swallowed, her heart hammering in her chest as she turned back to the stove, focusing far too intently on stirring the sauce.

“Could you grab the pasta?” she asked, her voice a little uneven.

Lionel lingered for half a second longer before stepping back, his presence somehow both too much and not enough. “Of course.”

They finished preparing dinner without further incident, though the air between them remained charged. By the time they sat down to eat—Rachel in her hoodie and Lionel still looking entirely too put together—the tension had softened again, replaced by something warmer.

“I think you have a new calling,” Rachel said, spearing a forkful of pasta. “Chopping tomatoes.”

“I’ll update my resume,” Lionel replied smoothly, though his smile betrayed him.

Rachel laughed, shaking her head. “Don’t quit your day job just yet.”

They ate slowly, conversation meandering as easily as it had earlier. Lionel asked questions about her life—her childhood on the Kansas farm, her family—and Rachel found herself opening up in ways she hadn’t expected. In return, Lionel shared bits of his life that surprised her: his love of art, his first awkward attempt at business when he was a teenager, and the quiet loneliness that seemed to thread through his otherwise charmed life.

Rachel listened, her gaze softening as she realized how much more there was to him than the headlines and the rumors. How hard it was for him to find true connection.

After dinner, Rachel insisted on cleaning up—“It’s only fair since you did so much work,” she teased—while Lionel poured them each a glass of wine.

It was only later, as the kitchen was spotless and they stood together in the lingering warmth of the evening, that the silence stretched between them again. Rachel felt her pulse quicken as Lionel set down his glass, his gaze finding hers.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said softly, her voice breaking the quiet. “I needed a bit of normalcy after that shit show.”

Lionel stepped closer, his expression unreadable but intent. “No, Rachel,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. The way he said her name stopped her in her tracks. “Thank you.”

He looked at her as if she were the only thing in the room, his dark eyes searching hers. Slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek.

“You’ve been more than honest with me,” he said softly, his voice tinged with longing. “I think it’s time I was honest too.”

Rachel’s heart raced as he cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin. His touch was gentle, reverent, as though he feared she might shatter under his hands. It made her breath hitch in her chest.

Looking  up at him, her heart racing as he leaned in,Rachel surrendered. His lips brushed hers with a tenderness that unraveled her. The kiss was slow and deliberate, his mouth moving over hers with a longing that felt raw and unspoken.

Wordlessly, she melted into him, her hands smoothing up his chest as he deepened the kiss just slightly, as though afraid to push too far. He held her as if she were something precious, his fingers tangling lightly in her hair, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

When they finally pulled apart, Lionel rested his forehead against hers, his breath uneven.

Rachel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Lionel…”

He opened his eyes, his gaze dark and searching. “I don’t know what this is, Rachel,” he admitted softly. “But I’d like to find out.”

She swallowed hard, her emotions tangled and impossible to name. “You aren’t exactly know for commitment,” she chuckled. “I’m not a notch on your bedpost.”

A small smile tugged at Lionel’s lips as he pulled back slightly, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “No, you are not. But perhaps we can figure this out together.”